The woman nodded. 'I know you did,' she said bravely.
She was thin and strong-boned, with direct brown eyes and an old- fashioned beauty parlor perm. If you looked past the celadon pantsuit, the white polyester blouse with the big bow at the neck, and the big, clear violet frames of her designer glasses, you could see remnants of her pioneer forebears. She had an American Gothic kind of strength, and pride and faith in abundance.
Hunt had to hand it to her. She really was the proverbial tower of strength.
Her husband was another story. He took the news hard, and made no attempt to hide the tears in his eyes. His cheerful resort garb—yellow golf slacks, riotous aloha shirt, and Forty-niners baseball cap—clashed with his lugubriousness, and underscored the tragedy of a family vacation gone wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The man's shattered, Hunt realized. If his son isn't released soon, it won't be long before he falls to pieces.
'Poor Kev.' Joe Whitman rubbed his face wearily. 'If only I hadn't insisted on bringing him along.'
'Stop torturing yourself,' Hunt said gently. 'You can't think that way. You're not at fault.'
But it was as if Joe Whitman hadn't heard. He shook his head and heaved a sigh and looked up at Hunt with haunted, baggy eyes.
'We've always taken Kev everywhere,' he said huskily. 'We never once had any trouble. Not ever. Just ask Midge.'
Head raised, his wife looked at Hunt directly.
'Joe's right,' she confirmed. 'But Kev's a good kid. He'll be fine.'
'How can you say that?' her husband blurted. He stared at her, his body quivering from fraught nerves. 'Midge! He is not fine! In that—that stinking hellhole—he's about as far from fine as you can get!'
She shook her head. 'The Bible says, 'Who ever perished being innocent?' ' she quoted, with the calm sureness of the true believer. 'Well, Kev's innocent. You mark my words, Joe. The Lord is looking after him as we speak.'
Confronted with this simple declaration of faith, Hunt felt a renewed surge of anger. Damn and blast Chief Zuniga to hell! He had the urge to march back into that office and tear the nitpicking bastard from limb to limb.
The Whitmans were innocent. Any idiot could see that. Good Lord, if ever there was a classic case of what you see is what you get—in this case decent, law-abiding, God-fearing tourists—you didn't have to look any further.
Instead of being hounded, the Whitmans should be lauded, Hunt thought.
He envied their basic goodness, their simplicity, their nonjudgmental love. Though their child had been born less than perfect, there'd been no question of feeling shame, or of loving him less, or, God forbid, of placing him in an institution.
No. Joe and Midge Whitman had showered Kevin with love. Had, in fact, gone out of their way to let him enjoy as normal a life as circumstances would permit.
If the Whitmans were guilty of anything, it was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just one of those things. A classic instance of bad timing. While shopping for souvenirs in Santa Cruz Bay, the elder Whitmans had stepped into a boutique, leaving Kevin waiting outside.
Who could have predicted that two teens, chased by plainclothesmen, would give their pursuers the slip, but not before thrusting their booty at Kevin?
Literally leaving him holding the bag.
That had been two weeks earlier. Since then, neither the Whitmans' pleas, the statements of the witnesses, the intercession of the local consul, nor the American ambassador in Mexico City had managed to win the boy's release.
Increasingly frustrated, and growing ever more desperate, the Whitmans had appealed to everyone they could think of for help—including Hunt Winslow, their state senator back home.
They'd hoped that by casting a wide net, they'd find someone— anyone—who'd be able to effect Kevin's release. But what they hadn't expected, what had taken them totally by surprise, was that Hunt Winslow dropped everything and flew to their aid.
When he'd shown up in person, you could have knocked them over with a feather.
Kevin's plight had struck a deep, personal chord in Hunt. A chord so deep, and so intensely personal, that he'd had his aides clears his calendar.
Now, standing in the shiny tiled hallway outside Chief Zuniga's office, Hunt shot back his cuff and checked his Breitling for the time. 'It's past noon,' he noted. 'Tell you what. Why don't I take you both to lunch?'
Midge Whitman looked up at him. 'Thank you,' she declined with prim politeness, 'but my husband and I'd much rather remain here. You know'—she gestured—'just in case.'
Hunt nodded. 'I understand completely,' he said gently.
'But don't let that stop you from eating,' she urged. 'Please, go on and have some lunch. We'll be fine.'
He nodded again. 'I won't be more than an hour or so.'
And shooting a contemptuous glance at Chief Zuniga's door, he added: 'Who knows? Perhaps by then, the local Gestapo chief'll have come to his senses!'
Midge Whitman attempted a smile, but it never quite reached her lips. Clearing her throat, she clasped her hands in her lap.
'May I ask you a question, Mr. Winslow?' she asked haltingly.
'Please, Mrs. Whitman.' He smiled disarmingly and gestured. 'Feel free to.'
'I don't mean to sound ungrateful,' she said slowly, obviously choosing her words with care, 'because God knows, we are grateful!' She looked at him with clear-faced sincerity. 'It's just . . .' Her hands fluttered uncertainly.
'Yes?' he prodded.
Her gaze was direct. 'You're going through so much trouble for us. What I can't figure out is why. I mean, we're nobodies . . . '
Hunt shook his head. 'You're wrong,' he said quietly, with conviction. 'Everyone on this planet is somebody. Everyone.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right.' She bit her lip and sighed, as if torn between keeping silent and confessing something. Then, as if she could no longer contain her burden, she blurted: 'But we . . . we didn't even vote for you!'
'So?' Hunt smiled easily. 'That's your prerogative. Or have you forgotten? We live in a democracy.'
His smile abruptly faded as he added, 'At least, north of the border, we do!'
They both fell silent as two policemen, manhandling an old drunk, approached from down the hall. Hunt made room for them by flattening himself against the wall; Joe and Midge shifted position on the bench, turning their knees sideways in tandem.
Noisily, the trio jostled past, leaving boozy fumes and the cops' merciless taunting in their wake. As Hunt and the Whitmans watched, one of the officers purposely stuck out a foot. The drunk stumbled, and the cops swiftly set about pummeling him.
Midge flinched at the violence. 'My God,' she whispered. 'That's police brutality!' Her face was white as she stared up at Hunt. 'And the poor man's perfectly harmless.'
Hunt nodded his head. 'Yes, he is.'
'Then why do they treat him so roughly? What's wrong with this place?'
'It's not the place,' he replied tightly. 'It's who's in charge.'
'You mean . . .'
Hunt looked at her. 'That's right. Chief Zuniga.'
She stared at him. 'But something's got to be done about this!' Her voice was sharply outraged.
'Something should,' Hunt concurred. 'Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do—not without jeopardizing Kevin's release. God knows what other charges Zuniga could trump up.'
Midge lowered her eyes and sighed.
'Look, you've got worries of your own,' Hunt said gently. 'Your only concern right now must be for Kevin.'
She looked down at her hands some more and then raised her eyes. 'You're right,' she said softly.
'Now, I'd better get a move on,' Hunt said, 'or I'm liable to miss lunch. If you like, I can have the hotel send over some sandwiches.'
'Oh, no!' Midge protested. 'Thank you for offering, but we're fine. I'll pop out in a while and get us a little something.' She continued to hold his gaze. 'You still haven't answered my question, you know.'
Hunt nodded. 'I know,' he replied softly. And buttoning his suit jacket, he bowed slightly, then turned on his heel and took his leave.
36
Sonny Fong was back. In Manhattan and the swing of things. So it was grimy, gloomy, and wet. So what? Even in the thrashing rain, the urban colossus had never looked better.
The streets thrummed. The drains were overflowing and the traffic was backed up. Buses and trucks belched exhaust, gridlocked cars and cabs honked an impatient symphony, and the crazies who hadn't taken shelter were ignored by the armies of pedestrians, the true Manhattanites distinguishing themselves by the offensive expertise with which they wielded their umbrellas.
By all gods great and small, but it was good to be home! After driving to Atlanta, and then all the way down to Mexico and back, returning to the Big Apple was like a breath of fresh air.
To really appreciate this city, Sonny thought, you occasionally have to leave it. That will do it every time.
He had additional reasons to feel good. He had successfully completed each of the tasks the old lung tao had set out for him.
All had gone without a hitch.
He had procured the salmonella samples in Atlanta and dispatched Dr. Wo Sheng Yi.
He had crossed the border checkpoints into Mexico unchallenged, the guards on both sides waving the Lexus and its cargo—the refrigerator flask filled with liquid nitrogen, which contained the CDC microbes— blithely through.
Nobody cared what went into Mexico; only what was being brought out.
Even posing as a busboy in the kitchens of the Hale Hotel and Beach
Resort in Huatulco had been a breeze—as had spiking the pots of freshly cooked shrimp with Salmonella.
He'd ditched the refrigerator flask on the long drive back to the border.
This time his car was assiduously searched. For drugs, of course. Which he'd fully expected, and of which there were none.
As if he was that stupid!
Feds! he'd thought in disgust. The fools would help let you smuggle a nuclear bomb into Mexico! All they cared about was cocaine and illegal aliens coming north.
In retrospect, his tasks had been simple, almost an insult to his talents. Still, there had been any number of times when things might have gone wrong.
The gods of fortune had indeed attended him.
Since they had, he decided a celebration was in order. Instead of heading to his luxury high-rise uptown, he changed direction and drove over to Chinatown. How better to celebrate than by paying Emerald Chang's establishment a visit?
The instant Sonny was shown into the sumptuous duplex, he saw the girl he wanted.
She was all of sixteen and delicate as porcelain. Her skin was smooth and still in its first flower of youth, her face was a perfect oval, and she had dark, almond-shaped eyes and lips formed like a tiny bow.
But it was not her looks that had decided him. There was a refreshing shy innocence about her that none of the other girls, however beautiful, could lay claim to.
However, before business could be transacted, there were certain formalities that had to be observed first.
Emerald Chang, resplendent in a gold chong sam, greeted him from her rosewood throne. Her ageless face was devoid of expression and she was smoking one of her long thin cigars, but her eyes, surrounded by the furry caterpillar lashes, sized up Sonny shrewdly.
She knew he was here of his own accord, otherwise the old lung tao in Hong Kong would have seen fit to inform her of his visit. She also knew what it was Sonny Fong was seeking.
She bade him to sit and clapped her hands sharply. A serving girl brought him tea.
Sonny sipped it politely, then put down his cup and spoke in the Chiuchow dialect. 'Your tea has the fragrance of ten thousand flowers, Honored Sister.'
Emerald Chang bowed graciously. 'You are most kind, though it is not worthy of such an honorable guest.'
Sonny hid the beginnings of a smile. During his previous visits Emerald Chang had demanded deference; now that he was the client, she subtly deferred to him.
'Your garden has a beautiful new flower,' he observed.
Emerald Chang drew on her cigar and nodded. 'Her name is Autumn Moon,' she said. 'She is the youngest and most precious of all the blooms in my garden.'
'Then she is also the least experienced in the secrets of pleasure.'
'Which makes her all the more valuable,' Emerald Chang replied. 'Youth is but a fleeting treasure. A gift such as hers can be savored but rarely.'
'Perhaps so,' Sonny said. 'But the gift of which you speak is the gift which can be savored but once.'
Emerald Chang inclined her head. What he said was true. Autumn Moon was no longer a virgin; a connoisseur had paid twenty-five thousand dollars for the privilege of deflowering her.
Keeping her face neutral, she tried to gauge how much Sonny might be willing to spend. 'Autumn Moon's jade gate was unlocked only several days ago. So fresh a bud must not be forced into full bloom. She must be allowed to flower slowly, lest she wither on the vine.'
'For that and other reasons, I am prepared to be generous,' Sonny said formally. 'For the youth and high regard in which you hold her, I am prepared to pay two thousand dollars.'
He slipped a thick envelope from his breast pocket and counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. Emerald Chang drew on her cigar and watched as he placed them in two neat stacks on the banquette beside him.
'And to compensate you for the loss of any innocence I might cause her, I offer a further two thousand dollars.'
He counted out the bills and put down two more stacks.
Now a gasp rose from the girls seated at the far end of the room. Autumn Moon, however, sat silently in their midst, eyes cast down in seemly modesty. But Emerald Chang's eyes glittered like jet beads within the furry, caterpillar lashes.
'And, merely to show my appreciation for the beauty you cultivate in your garden, Honored Sister, I will give'—with a dramatist's instinct, Sonny paused and counted out yet two thousand dollars more, which he also placed on the banquette—'an additional two thousand dollars,' he said, rising to his feet. 'Six thousand dollars. For just two hours of her time.'
The other girls sprang up and surrounded Autumn Moon in a circle. They were chattering excitedly. Not one among them could remember such largesse, at least not since the nights their jade gates had first been broached.
Emerald Chang pushed herself to her feet and clapped her hands. 'Autumn Moon, take our honorable guest to the Dragon Suite.'
They all knew that this particular suite was rarely used. It was reserved for very special occasions and only a handful of the most highly esteemed and select of clients.
Then, turning to Sonny, Emerald Chang bowed graciously. 'You have brought great honor to my house. You will always be welcome here.'
He bowed politely in return. 'The honor is all mine, Esteemed Sister.'
The other girls eyed Autumn Moon covetously as she escorted Sonny from the room.
Emerald Chang nodded to herself in approval. The old lung tao would be pleased, she thought. His young cousin has shown himself to be a man of great standing.
For through his generosity, Sonny Fong had gained immense face for them all:
For herself.
For her establishment.
For Autumn Moon.
For the old lung tao.
And above all, for Sonny himself.
All in all, it was six thousand dollars well spent—a small price to pay for so many dividends.
Emerald Chang sat back down and smoked her cigar thoughtfully. The young man was probably more clever than she had credited him with being. And more ambitious than the lung tao feared.
By the time Sonny got home, daylight was fading. The rain had stopped, and Manhattan, scrubbed and scoured, glittered like some vertical, earth- bound constellation.
He parked in his usual slot in the underground garage, retrieved his suitcase and garment bag from the trunk, and boarded the elevator. He punc
hed the button marked 36.
The doors sighed shut and the elevator rose swiftly.
Sonny was feeling good. He had left Madame Chang's six thousand dollars poorer, but the esteem it had purchased him was priceless.
He was also satiated. What Autumn Moon had lacked in skill, she more than made up for in compliance. Three times he had impaled her with his jade stick, and three times he had filled her with his torrent.
The recent activities lingered freshly on his memory's palate.
I chose well, he thought, the lean, ruthless planes of his face as merciless as the cruelty shining in his eyes. I chose very well. Autumn Moon did things any experienced girl would have refused.
For what excited Sonny Fong was not sex. His aphrodisiac was corruption. Specifically, the corruption of any vestige of innocence and illusions Autumn Moon might have harbored.
And these he had systematically set out to shatter.
And how easily he had accomplished that! All it had required were a few simple commands . . . whispered almost lovingly, as though they were endearments . . and thus she had been forced to debase herself by performing the repellent, the disgusting, the unspeakable.
Yet she had obliged without complaint. Nor, he was certain, would she complain. Face would not permit. After the generosity he had shown, voicing a grievance would only bring shame on herself and the house of Madame Chang.
One thing's for sure, Sonny thought. Autumn Moon's never going to forget me. Every time a customer looks at her, fear and disgust will flash through her head. And all because I put it there.
He smiled to himself. Ah, corruption. In corruption was fear. And loathing. And power. Above all, power.
The next time I celebrate, he promised himself, I'll treat myself to the gift that can be savored but once.
Yes. To degrade a virgin prostitute, and sour her to sex from the very first, would be worth almost any price.
The elevator slowed and stopped on his floor. The doors slid open. Sonny stepped out and went down the corridor to his apartment.
Once inside, he flicked a wall switch in the foyer. Soft pools of light sprang on throughout the apartment. He parked his suitcase and garment bag by the front door.
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